


Coloring Between the Lines

by Grandoverlord



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist AU, Gon & Killua are 16, Leorio & Kurapkia are grad students, M/M, it's more fucked up than an artist AU has any right to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandoverlord/pseuds/Grandoverlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gon had the good sense to look away. “Hunter’s has this motto, words that the alumni are supposed to live by: resourceful, creative, ambitious. And the exam doesn’t really test your skill so much as your potential—“</p><p>“And?” Killua asked, his impatience beginning to show as his fingers tapped the table. He hated people who talked around things.</p><p>“A lot of the tests would be considered…kind of illegal. I mean, there’s a stuff that goes on in them that’s against the law every year-- drugs, mutilation, couple of deaths, ‘cause the exam is testing how well you hold true to those ideals, right?—which, anyway, was why I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you and am now going to get into an incredible amount of trouble with the exam committee and--“</p><p>“You actually believe that kind of shit?” Killua laughed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Killua had learned early that few things in life were as entertaining as personal irony, the kind that was only funny because he was the only one aware of it.

“The _walls_! Would you believe what those _vandals_ have done to my _walls_?” Kiyoko’s shriek echoed through the mountain.

And there it was. Exquisite.

The rest of the house took a moment to catch up with the hysteria, trudging towards her exclamation like a pack of reluctant slinkys. Killua lingered at the top of the stairs as his mother burst through the front door, her face a canvas of red splotches, chest heaving.  

The rest of his family emerged from their various corridors, most of them lingering in the shadows—catching his mother’s eyes right now was an invitation for her to escalate even more. Killua felt rather than saw that gaze land on him. Nope. He steeled himself to make a run for it, let Illumi or one of the others fall prey to her raving.

“Killua, dear, have you been _outside_ today?” In three…two--

“What’s going on?”

Killua sent a silent thank-you to whatever deity had decided to send his father striding into the entrance hall at that moment—because, yeah, his family totally had an entrance hall to their giant, empty mansion.

Silva wore a frown like some people wore their wedding rings; a sign of commitment, for it-could-be-worse and for worse, in hypochondria or in health. Whether his parents had married for love or to consolidate their respective businesses, his father was hardly a man that you could fault for lack of hard-won skill when it came to handling his wife. Why he put up with everything was beyond Killua, but now that he was here the rest of them could safely disperse back to their corners.

Unless he wanted to see this play out, which he wasn’t even going to lie—watching his mother freak out about this was sweet (and he was practically a connoisseur).  

Killua slid back from the stairs, his filial duty paid, and positioned himself just around the corner. He wouldn’t be able to see his mother’s expressions, but at least he’d be able to hear. And he wouldn’t have to keep the shit eating grin off of his face.

“ _Silva,_ have you _seen_ what those streetlings have done to the _walls_?”

No response. Killua assumed that his father had shook his head, or maybe just delivered one of those piercing stares that made everyone but his wife uncomfortable.

“I was _outside_ this morning, taking a nice walk—although the sun has been so heavy recently, you understand, that I had no _choice_ but to take a parasol with me. Well, I took the white lace one with the silver trimmings, the one from Peru? Anyway, as I made my way to the edge of our property, you’ll _never_ guess what I saw.”

A pause. Killua pressed a delicate hand to his chest, mimicking his mother’s histrionics.

“ _Vulgarities!_ They were everywhere; pictures of the worst nature, in all sorts of unspeakable poses, and with such…detail. If they were crudely drawn—well, either way, I’m still not altogether recovered from it.”

“Graffiti?” Silva’s voice came in response, low enough that Killua had to strain to hear it.

“Well, I’d hardly call it _art_. The person who impressed it on our walls probably never held a paintbrush in his wretched _life_ ,” she sniffed.

Killua clasped a hand over his mouth to muffle his snickers. After all the art lessons she’d paid for over the years—well, at least it was ‘detailed’.

It was dumb. Immature. Call it whatever you’d like, but Killua didn’t get out much during the summer—or at all, really—and entertainment was in short supply. Besides, his parents were always trying to get him to practice; what better canvas was there than the wall lining their property? If his subjects happened to be a little unconventional, well, that was art for you. Always pushing boundaries.

Killua slid towards the corner. He hadn’t spent half the night skulking around with spray paint to _not_ get to see that woman’s head try to take off from her neck when she discovered his work.  

Killua bit his lip and slipped just barely around the corner, just enough to see their faces--

His father’s cold stare met his with unerring promise of retribution.

Fuck. Abort mission.

Maybe it was about time for Killua to get out and about. Enjoy the town for a little while. Like, a couple of days. Or a month. He’d never seen his father’s eyes like that, all icy furious. He hadn’t pulled anything like this before, had no idea what kind of punishment his father might concoct. Killua didn’t want to stick around to see that yoyo come back to whack him in the face.

He had enough cash—and more than that, self-preservation—to be able to lie low for long enough for his father to cool down. How did he always know when Killua was the one to pull shit? Not that his other siblings really tended to, so it was pretty much _always_ Killua, but still—

Silva ended the conversation with Killua’s mother and started towards the stairs.

Should he bolt? Fight? Throw himself out a window? Killua couldn’t move as he watched his father’s approach. Slow, inevitable, Silva moved like a tectonic plate. Killua had learned about them, done a project for his geography tutor just last week on how mountains were formed; a pair of tectonic plates would crash together and either they’d both go up and become a kind of physical impasse, or one of them would buckle and subduct.

Killua had no doubt of the outcome of any confrontation between himself and his father.

Still though, like a mountain, he was rooted to his spot, fighting to keep his expression innocently blank. As Silva approached, Killua braced himself for the unavoidably onslaught about to set it.

A heavy hand grasped his shoulder.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Silva said. He didn’t even look at Killua as he walked away.

Killua would live to see another day. Now he just had to pack.

 

\---

 

 “Aunt Mito! I’m fine,” Gon said, wriggling out from his Aunt’s attempts to smooth down his hair. “You know that it won’t do any good. I’m ready to _go._ ”

His aunt’s face looked more lined than Gon remembered it. When had that happened? She wasn’t old, but she looked so tired these days-- what would she do without Gon to help out at the store? Maybe he should stay for one more year, just to make sure everything was probably set up before he left.

“I know. God, look at you, Gon,” Mito said. She put her hands on Gon’s shoulders and held him out in front of her. He was at least a full head taller than her. “You’re not even an adult, but you keep saying you’re ready for this. What kind of idiot are you, leaving home at sixteen?”

“The kind who’s going to miss his family every day,” he said.

“You’re such a softie.”

Gon smiled, that bright full face grin that made him so popular in town. “I take after you.”

“Now I’m the softie?” Mito asked. Despite her best attempts to look tough, tears stung the corners of her eyes. “Maybe a little bit,” she conceded. “But only because I can’t help but worry about you out there.”

“I know, Aunt Mito.” His smile dimmed, smaller, but no less sincere. “But you don’t have to, I promise.”

“I’ll never not worry about you. It’s what mothers do.”

Gon caught Mito in a bear hug, halfway lifting her off her feet in the process. Despite however unpleasant it probably was, she didn’t break it. Mito just hugged him back, her hands wrapping around him like she could keep him there by force of will alone, keep him safe in her arms forever.

“You promised you’d let me go,” Gon said. “I think that starts with actually physically letting go of me.”

Mito stepped back apologetically, wiping away the tears that spilled over. “I know. And I taught you to keep your promises, so what does that say about me? I’m not even the one making the decision and this is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

“Not doing anything can be harder than acting, especially when it comes to your loved ones,” Gon said.

“I love you, so, so much.”

“I’ll be back soon, Aunt Mito.”

“You better be,” Mito said, shaking a warning finger at him. “If you die out there, I’ll never forgive you for it. My mother would be distraught.”

Gon laughed, brighter than the rising sun. “Of course.”

They stood there for a minute, trying to think of words that would serve as their last. They both knew that there was a chance that Gon wouldn’t come back, no matter what he said. People died during the exam, lots of them.

“I almost hope that you never even find the exam site,” Mito said, sniffing. “I won’t sleep right, knowing that you’re out there doing god knows what just to get into some silly school.”

Gon had a feeling that it was a little more than almost. “I know. But I have to.”

“You don’t!” Mito burst. “Go out and travel the world, find a partner, settle down in a foreign land-- let that be your adventure. Your father isn’t worth it.”

“I have to,” Gon repeated.

Mito just sighed.

“You’re too like him. Whale Island was never enough for your father either. I have a feeling that this _world_ isn’t large enough for him, that’s why he was always exploring. I think he half-hoped to find another world under an overturned rock, one that was finally the right size for him.”

“Do you think he found it?”

“He’s certainly found something, though I don’t know exactly what that is. And as to whether it was enough, I sincerely doubt it.”

“Weren’t you the same, when you were a kid?” Gon asked, reluctant suddenly to leave. He wanted to draw out his last minutes with the only mother he’d ever known, memorize this moment, paint it in his mind with all the watercolors he could never afford. “Exploring?”

Mito smiled, soft and sad. “I wanted to be there when he found that world, get a glimpse of it if I could.” She took Gon’s hand. “But I discovered that possibility isn’t half as real as it promises to be. Ging was looking to take something more than this life can offer, but I never wanted to take anything. Eventually I figured out that I craved a world found in giving.”

“And what did you find?” Gon asked.

“A home. A family. All the things that he never did.”

Gon looked at his Aunt. “I’m going to say goodbye now.” He looked at the bags under her eyes, the hair that refused to lose its vibrancy, the eyes that smiled even when she frowned. He saw her home-sewn clothes, her sunbeaten skin, the dirt under her nails. He looked at his aunt, his mother, one of the few people on this earth who loved him truly and fully for who he was, unconditionally.

“Promise me something, Gon,” Mito said, her face hardening. “Please.” Her words carried a note of desperation, the kind that sat high in your chest and set your heart pounding.

Gon nodded, brown eyes serious. “Anything.”

“Promise me that you’ll try your hardest to come back. I can’t ask for any more than that, but I need to know that you’ll _try._ ” Her voice shook. “Don’t just leave and never come back because-- because the world is more exciting than Whale Island. Everyone needs a home, okay? Promise that you won’t throw it all away.”

He heard what she didn’t say. _Promise you won’t be like your father._

“I won’t,” Gon said solemnly. “I promise.” He pressed their thumbs together. “Sealed with a kiss!”

He leaned in for one last hug. Mito smelled like autumn and soap and everything safe. He straightened up, shrugged his backpack so it rested a little higher, and grinned.

“I’ll see you soon, Aunt Mito!”

“Goodbye, Gon.”

Although tears, unbridled now that Gon had turned his back, streamed down her face, Mito felt herself smile.

“I’m so proud of you, even if you are just like him. He was amazing too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is updated to have a Gon bit, and I'll be editing as I write, so there's that. Kudos and comments make my heart sing, though any reader has my gratitude for taking the time to read my work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not home, but at least it's got cookies.

Some teenagers snuck out. Others snuck in. Gon, he didn’t have to do much sneaking at all—or at least, not when it came to where he lived.

It wasn’t home, of course. Home was with Aunt Mito back out on Whale Island; home was fresh baked bread and fish in the markets, walking into town twice a week, faces that you’d seen a thousand times. A bit different from the cheap apartment he shared with his newfound friends. The city was the opposite of home in every way.

Not that there was anything wrong with it, Gon thought as he hung his backpack on the pegs by the door. The city was nice in its own way. It was exciting. Bright lights and brighter people, more colors of hair than he’d ever dreamed. It just…wasn’t home.  

The clock on the wall was broken—had been for weeks—but the hour hand stuck at ‘3’ probably wasn’t that far off.

Walking quietly so as not to disturb his roommates, whom he hoped were sleeping and had just left the hall light on, Gon made his way to the kitchen.

He missed Aunt Mito’s cooking as much as anything.

Gon’s stomach let out an alarming growl. Gon grimaced and opened the fridge. It was sparsely populated, a mess of takeout boxes and half-finished drinks. Some food had names scrawled across in black sharpie—Leorio’s-- though Gon wasn’t sure if he would trust any of those Styrofoam containers anyway; there was no telling how long ago they’d been shoved in there.

Nothing in there looked remotely appetizing. Not even the leftovers of Kurapika’s last meal, neatly plastic-wrapped and filed away on the one shelf they saved for actual food. He was a good cook, but there was really only so many ways to prepare what they could afford.

So be it. Gon made a grab at the milk carton instead. It was almost empty, but that just meant that he didn’t need to get a glass dirty. Gon tore open the top of the carton, leaving it an open rectangle.

The perfect cookie receptacle.

Chocolate chip cookies were divine. They were the only thing he’d really learned to cook before he’d left home other than rice—a fact that he had started to regret, but couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it as he retrieved them from on top of the fridge and bit into a perfectly gooey interior.

 Simple pleasures.

 The muffled shuffle of socked feet treading through the living room made its way to Gon’s ears and he found himself frowning. He hadn’t been quiet enough.

 “Gon?” A bleary-eyed Kurapika appeared in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand and a frown on his face. “What’re you doing still up?”

 Gon took a swig of milk. “I just got back. Wanted a snack before I turned in.”

 Kurapika nodded, accepting the excuse. He didn’t question why Gon was out at this hour, or why he’d decided that cookies were a good snack, or any of his normal parental inquiries—a sure sign that he was exhausted. Gon wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t the first night that Kurapika hadn’t slept in the last couple of days. He wasn’t sure what it was that kept the man up at night, but you noticed stuff like that after living together. Even if it was only for a couple of weeks.

 “I was at the 11th street lot,” Gon explained. “Got a piece done. Used my last can of blue, though.”

 “How long were you out?” Kurapika asked, more awake now. “What time is it?”

 “Couple of hours. It’s late.”

 Gon watched as Kurapika placed his cup on the counter and turned on the stove, well on his way to making another cup of tea. Decaf, not that it made a difference. Kurapika drifted over to the table and picked up a cookie, nibbling at it as he waited for the water to boil.

 “It should be there for a few days before the cleaners find it,” Gon offered.

 “The 11th street lot-- that’s by the mountain, right?”

 Gon nodded. “I passed by there earlier to today to scope it out, said that I was taking a hike when the shop owners started looking at me twice.”

 “You’re hardly inconspicuous.”

 “None of us are,” Gon said. Gon was wide, tall, would’ve been scouted as a quarterback had there been a football team at his school. Considering his school consisted of all of one person, that would have been difficult. Leorio was noticeable in the same way, lanky as only teenage boys are capable of being. Kurapika wasn’t as strong or tall as either of them-- or at least he didn’t look it-- but he had an air of authority that drew attention to him. And he was prettier than both of his roommates put together, as Leorio often said after a few drinks.

 “How long do you think it’ll last?” Kurapika asked eyeing the kettle.

 Gon shrugged. “Long enough. Shouldn’t the exam site be announced soon?”

 “It should have been announced already. I’m sure there are people who have already found their way there. It’s simply a matter of us stragglers now.”

 “Do you think it’s possible that none of us were chosen? That they’re done?” Gon asked, though he wasn’t sure what he would do if that was true.  
Kurapika snorted. “I don’t think so. It’s unlikely that we’ll make it to the end this year, but I am fully confident that all of us-- even Leorio-- are good enough to be noticed. Besides,” Kurapika said. “You know that they would indicate somehow that we didn’t make the cut.”

 Gon’s shoulders slumped, the time finally starting to sink in. Art kept him awake, but the second his cans stopped moving, he was exhausted. “I know,” he said. “I’m just anxious. I wish something would _happen._ ”

 “Sitting still isn’t your strong point.”

 Gon shook his head. “Can you make me some too?” He asked, waving a hand at the tea bags. He didn’t much care for caffeine, but warm drinks and late nights were a match made in heaven. “What've we got?”

 “Mint.”

 Gon waved a hand. “Then mint is fine. Why don’t we have anything else?”

 “I only drink mint. Leorio drinks coffee." Kurapika's eyes dropped. 

 Gon raised an eyebrow. “Why only mint?”

 Kurapika took a second before he answered, his eyes distant. “No real reason.” He looked over at the kettle. His body bowed against the counter, some invisible burden pushing down on his shoulders. “It’s sharp. It helps me clear my mind.”

Gon resisted the urge to ask what of  Maybe Kurapika would tell him some of them someday. Maybe not. Either way, it was late and he didn’t want to push it. That kind of tension felt wrong right now.  

Call him obtuse, call him blunt, but Gon was nothing if not perceptive.

“I think there’s a new artist around,” Gon said in an effort to change the topic. “Not a tagger, but I don’t think he knows the area very well.”

“Why’s that?” Kurapika seemed to make an effort to tune into the conversation, but his hand still tapped nervously against the cabinets below the counter.

“He put his piece on the Zoldyck walls.”

Kurapika sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s not a good move,” he said. “How long do you think he’ll hang around?”

“Hard to say.” Gon shrugged, eyeing another cookie. He _could_ just make more, but brown sugar was expensive and his day job at the café wasn’t exactly raking in the dough. “But I can tell you one thing; he’s good.”

Kurapika pursed his lips. “How good?”

“I can't exactly say—the whole thing looked kinda fast, and more than a little sketchy, but you could tell he knew what he was doing.” Gon furrowed his eyebrows at the cookies, steeling his will towards not finishing them.

He stood up while he still had the willpower for it.

“Is he—“ Kurapika started.

“I don’t think he knows.”

“No Mark?”

Gon shook his head. “I don’t even think he’s really a graffiti artist—though I guess I’m not one to talk—but he wasn’t using spray paint, just markers.”

The kettle whistled, piercingly high. Kurapika moved quickly. He took it off the burner, clicked the spout open, and poured it two his mugs in one fluid motion. The water let up spirals of easy steam, and Gon realized exactly how quiet it was. The city was never silent, but at this time of night it got close.

Kurapika seemed at home in this kind of silence, this twilight between late-night and early morning. He was content to slip along with the sleep-saturated current. Peaceful. From the curling steam to the creeping clouds to the way that Kurapika’s chest moved as he let out a light sigh, the apartment seemed a world apart.

It was a moment stolen from time, one in which everything moved in the same rhythm. Gon had never been good at music, but sometimes he could hear the harmonies.

“I don’t know if using markers is enough to disqualify you from being a street artist,” Kurapika said—and that somehow fit in the flow too. His voice was even and calm, soft. “I’ve been known to use them from time to time.”

“Yeah. I can’t put my finger on it, but the style seemed a bit too…restrained, maybe? To be street art.”

“I can’t say I understand, but you’re right about this kind of thing more often than not.” Kurapika turned to get a teabag out of the cabinet behind him as he spoke. His movements mechanical, he dropped it into the cup. “You should get some sleep,” Kurapika said with an air of finality.

“So should you.” Gon didn’t bother to point out that Kurapika had forgotten Gon’s cup. He could sense the peace fraying. His own words chafed against it, cotton against silk.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got work to do.”

“You need to sleep,” Gon insisted. “Your work can wait ‘til morning.”

Kurapika smiled softly, his eyes on the tea cradled against his chest. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. His hands, cupped around the mug, squeezed tight. “Besides, you’re so stubborn that you’d probably say that you won’t sleep until I will.”

Gon gaped. “How’d you know I was going to say that?”

As Kurapika’s smile widened, Gon couldn’t help but mirror it. Gon felt like he had done something good here—if unconsciously-- and that feeling only grew as Kurapika let out a quiet chuckle.

“Lucky guess,” Kurapika said. The smile faded, but the warmth lingered on his face and Gon felt a deep-seated contentment settle in his chest.

“We should head in,” Kurapika murmured, floating towards the door. “Don’t be up for too much longer.”     

“Sure thing.” Gon remained in the kitchen, staring out the window. His eyes fixed on some distant point, somewhere beyond the gray sky and blurred city lights.

As much as he wanted the exam to begin, he knew that things would never be the same once it did. They’d be competing for a spot in a few weeks, knowing that if one of them got in the chance that the other did would slim dramatically. He wouldn’t let that get in the way of their friendship, though. No matter what.

He, Kurapika, and Leorio would all pass. They’d all go to Hunter’s. Together.

 

\---

 

 

Kurapika perched on the edge of the bed, curled over his knees. He couldn't seem to get rid of that aching tension in his back. The mug was so hot it burnt his hands, but he needed it to keep him grounded. Thin wisps of steam slunk skywards, stopped in their tracks by the unyielding ceiling.

Late nights were the worst.

Sleep would not come, he knew. It would come to Gon, whose face was unwrinkled, eyes open to the good of the world in a way that Kurapika’s would not be for years. Not until he had them back.

If he went to Leorio, the man would probably sit up with him. Gon would, too. They were both better than he deserved, but he wouldn’t blame his friends for their poor judgement. Just another point in their favor.

The tea was sharp, but Kurapika’s mind was too dulled by exhaustion for it to do much good.

Kurapika got out his sketchbook, colored pencils flying in short, wild lines. Violent. He only stopped when his eyes started burning-- fitting. Pencils dull, paper filled with contorted bodies, vague shapes of fire and night-- nightmares given form-- Kurapika closed his the book and threw at the far wall.

It fluttered open to his drawing. A hundred pairs of red eyes stared out. Silent. Accusatory. Dead.  

 

\---

 

This hotel smelled like piss, Killua thought, nose wrinkling. Perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killugon meeting next chapter! Forgive me for digressing, but Kurapika is ridiculously pretty and I feel like someone needs to point that out. Daily. (And please, please, please if you like, leave a kudos or a review because it's a really great and motivational assurance that I'm not shouting into the void!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluster, bluff, and beginnings.

The door tinkled to announce a new customer and Killua sunk lower into the booth. Every person coming in that door could be one of his brothers coming to drag him back to the manor—which was not going to happen, by the way. Whatever reprimand he would’ve faced for his original transgression would be blown out of the water by this. Killua pursed his lips and spun a pen between his fingers, an old habit.

He’d thought about leaving home more than once, but he never thought he’d do it. THe money was more for buying video games than the emergency fund it now served as.

The door tinkled again, a woman with stringy black hair and a long, shift-style dress this time. You had to see some weird people when you worked a service job, Killua thought as he surveyed the café. In the booth next to him was a tall man with a red nose and a thick mustache. Killua grinned as a waiter asked for the man’s order and his mustache quivered with each word of his response.

His attention captured by the mustache-man, Killua didn’t notice the waiter until they cleared their throat.

Killua started; it wasn’t often that he was caught off guard. It could have been Illumi standing next to him and he wouldn’t have noticed. Not good.

“What can I get for you today?” The waiter asked.

Killua looked at him and frowned. He looked like the kind of guy who would want to strike up conversation rather than just taking his drink order and fucking off like waiters were meant to.

“I’ll have a quad latte with extra whipped cream.”

The waiter’s eyes went large. “You sure?” His face was expressive, from the way his eyebrows shot up almost to his spiky black hair to the smile that stretched, guileless, across it. “That’s a lot of caffeine.”

Killua frowned up at the waiter. “Yes. It is.”

“Four shots of esspresso…” The waiter trailed off. “You’re going to vibrate right out of that booth.” He flashed a grin, wide and toothy.

“Can I get one or not?” Killua snapped.

“I’ll have it right away.”

Killua nodded, not bothering to watch the man head back to the kitchen.

He had some money, true. Enough to last a month or two as long as he continued to stay at fairly cheap establishments—being the city, there were enough of those to go around. He couldn’t stay at just one, though, or his family would be on to him. Couldn’t register under his own name, either, or people who cared less for his wellbeing would be on to him too. He’d find somewhere new tonight; the most he was likely able to stay anywhere was two or three nights before he’d need to move again.

And he couldn’t just stay at hotels indefinitely. Not even he had that much cash. He’d have to find some way to make money.

This was such a _pain._

In reality, he didn’t have many marketable skills. He could get a job at a place like this, he supposed, reduce himself to the level of waiting. As if summoned by the though, the waiter with the warm smile sauntered back, balancing a series drinks in an act of acrobatics that Killua wasn’t sure he could pull off if he wanted to.

“One insomnia-in-a-cup,” the waiter said, slipping the cup onto the table with practiced ease. “Enjoy your drink!”

“Thanks,” Killua replied. Then, on a whim, “Say, how hard is it to get a waiting job around here?”

The waiter paused, apparently taken back. “Depends on if you’ve got any experience or not, I guess.”

“Hypothetically none…in waiting, at least.”

“And how old is the hypothetical person?” The waiter asked. His brown eyes held playful light; he was onto him, but playing along anyway.

“Technically sixteen, but able to pass for older.”

The waiter considered it for a moment, the drinks still balanced on his arms. “Then I’d say it all depended on how well that person can handle a customer, and how likable they are. Personally, it wasn’t that hard for me, and I’m in a pretty similar situation to this hypothetical person-- I could put in a good word with the manager for them, too, if I got to know them. But I can’t do much for hypothetical people.” He shrugged. Killua bit his lip, stuck between irritation and amusement.

“Thanks,” Killua said, opting to end the conversation. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He turned to his coffee, but the guy didn’t walk off immediately like he had expected.

The waiter only lingered for a moment, quickly turning to his other customers, dishing out drinks and smiling all the while. How’d he do it? Killua gave a surreptitious glance after a minute or two to find the waiter chatting with a customer and leaning against the side of their booth, his drink tray tucked under one arm and smiling like it hadn’t been pouring since five A.M.

Killua surveyed the room.  

The café wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t empty, either. From the way that the waiting staff engaged with customers, Killua would guess that they had an attendance of regulars, small but loyal. “The Quay” was a cute little place, useful for getting away from his cramped hotel room and staying out of the rain. It also gave him something to do while he figured out what he was going to do with himself in the next few weeks.

He sipped the drink in front of him, feeling a whipped cream mustache coming on. He licked it away with relish. Maybe it was placebo effect, but he could already feel himself coming alive under the electrifying effects of caffeine.

Killua took the napkin and started sketching, something that always helped him direct his thoughts.

His parents had made sure that his education was wide and thorough, from languages (he spoke four, could read five) to politics (every country’s capital, population, and recent history) to classical poetry (he could recite the Iliad. Like actually.) The problem was that there weren’t many entry level jobs, degree-less especially, that he could _use_ those skills in. Especially not ones that wouldn’t ask questions about his age.

Maybe he would just mow lawns for a living. Or sell his hair and teeth on the black market. How many kidneys do you really need, anyway? But realistically, even that wasn’t an option—if he went anywhere near the local black market his parents would be onto him in a second.

Killua sighed, filing his problems away for dealing with later. He needed more caffeine before his thoughts would clear up enough to deal with any of this. He might regret that decision later, but that was later and now had whipped cream.

He drank his coffee in silence. The napkin in front of him went from a doodle of some of the more distinctive characters in the café to an entirely abstract depiction of the rain on the windows. It had some vaguely henna-like designs in there too—Killua wasn’t exactly putting too much thought into its composition or balance.

Now there was an idea; if you were good, if you were lucky, if you worked, there was way to make money as an artist. Not a lot, and not consistently, but maybe enough to tide him over. He would still face the same problems in encountering his parents, but this entry-level stuff wouldn’t be enough to ping their radar.

Killua fished his cellphone out of his back pocket and unlocked it with a quick swipe.

He could invest his money now in supplies and make the money back. He could do portraits for people, sit on the side of the street—but no, too much exposure. He could make a social media account and sell commissioned art off of that—but then, he’d need visibility, and IP addresses were too easy to track.           

The page loaded, prices and all.

So maybe doing art professionally…wasn’t an option. That shit was _expensive._

And to add insult to injury, he had eaten all the whipped cream, and all that was left was the bitter-as-shit coffee. That, and it was raining.

 _And_ the fucking waiter was back.

“What is it?” Killua snapped, unable to help himself. Christ, all he wanted was to be left alone to stew over the fact that he’d probably end up destitute in a ditch somewhere without anyone coming by every few minutes. But apparently, that was too much to fucking ask. Killua shot the waiter his best dagger-eyes.

The guy didn’t even have the good sense to look perturbed by it. His smile was implacable.

“Your check,” The waiter said, placing the offending wallet-foldy thing on the table. Killua flipped it open with a scowl, glaring at the overpriced coffee. Even caffeine, a basic human _need,_ was expensive in the real world. Paying for things sucked.

“What’s next, people charging for water?” Killua muttered, rifling through his backpack for his wallet. As he did so, the waiter leaned forward over the table.

“Did you do this?” The waiter asked, his eyes wide.

Killua followed his line of vision to the doodle-saturated napkin. His sketching had caught the guy’s eye. Killua snorted and went back to looking through his bag.

“No, I collect napkins with abstract designs on them because it’s such a thrilling hobby. And the pen there is just for show.”

The waiter held up his hands in a placating gesture. “You could be here with someone and it could be theirs. I don’t want to assume.”

“Well, I’m not.”  

“So it’s yours?” The waiter asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s really good!” Like Killua didn’t know that.

“Thanks.”

The waiter slid into the bench across from him, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forwards. His brown eyes gleamed.

“Are you an artist?” He asked, his voice buoyed by enthusiasm. Killua produced his wallet from his bag and looked up to see the waiter. His eyebrows furrowed—didn’t this guy have a job to get to, or something? Puppies to coddle? Damsels to save? He practically radiated ‘good Samaritan’, a type that Killua had never been a big fan of. Well—not personality wise, at least. Killua wouldn’t deny himself the simple pleasure of eyeing up some good-deed-doing arms.

“Kind of,” Killua said. He laid the appropriate number of bills—plus fifteen percent tip, because he wasn’t an awful human being-- on the bill and slid it across to the waiter. The guy just sat there, totally disregarding it. “But I already told you, I’m sixteen. Kinda hard to be an artist before you graduate high school.” _Please go away_.

“Uh-uh, you didn’t tell me that you were sixteen. You said that a ‘hypothetical person’ was sixteen.” He spoke using airquotes. Who did that. “Me too, though.”

“That’s cool.”

“My name’s Gon. You know, most people introduce themselves first, and then say their age. You know, like in French class when you learn ‘Je m’appelle Gon,’ and then, ‘J’ai seize ans’? We’re kinda doing this backwards, but that’s okay.”

The guy’s accent was bad. Like, really bad. Laughably so. Killua didn’t even bother fighting to keep the chuckle in. “Killua,” he said, a grin on his face despite himself. “Tu parles francais?”

“Ehh, je l’ai etudie pour quelques ans pendant ma jeunesse, mais maintenant…” He made a little ‘so-so’ motion with his hands. His accent was still terrible, but he enunciated clearly, at least. It wasn’t unusual to find someone from another country in the city, but you didn’t get much French. Shame—Killua was falling out of practice with that. Canary, his tutor, would be disappointed.

He probably wouldn’t see her again, though.

Gon must have seen the smile fall off of Killua’s face, because he rushed forwards into a new deluge of words.

“I don’t think age can stop someone from becoming an artist, though. If you’re good, you’re good, right?”  Gon insisted.

“Tell that to the thousand other artists in this city. Not to mention all the artists that can’t be artists because they have to make money, spend all their time working, and effectively destroy any creative will or spirit inside of them.” Killua looked for an exit to the conversation.

“I bet that you’re better than most of them.”

Killua searched Gon’s face for any sign of duplicity, but it was open and honest. He narrowed his eyes. Was this blind trust, stupidity, or a combination of the two? Gon couldn’t have gotten a real gauge of his skill from a little doodle; what he said was true, of course, but the guy had no way of knowing how true it was.

“Why do you say that?” Killua asked, his voice measured.                          

Gon shrugged. “I just get a feeling. Your art is really sensitive to light—like, here?” He pointed to a part of the doodle. “The cross-hatch just feels really polished, even if the sketch is rough. Plus, you capture people’s expressions super elegantly. That’s not beginner work.”

No kidding. Killua chose to redirect the conversation. “You’re an artist, I take it?”

Cue a sheepish expression. Eyes away, creeping blush. “Sort of? I mean, yeah, but not the kind I want to be.”

“How’s that?” Killua asked.

“I’m a street artist right now. But!” Gon said, his face as exclamatory as his words. “I want to paint, I think. Like my dad did.”

“He dead?”

Gon shook his head intently, a look of determination coming over him. “He’s—“ he paused. “--he’s still alive, for sure, and making art. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Ging Freccs?”

Killua’s heart stopped.

After a few moments it groaned back into motion, sputtering like a poorly oiled engine. His mind, however, went into overdrive, the gears clicking together so fast Killua would have sworn there was a whirring in his ears.

“Yeah. I’ve heard of him.” Mouth dry, hands shaking under the table. He put that last one to the caffeine, but only partially. _Holy shit._

“Anyway, I want to become an artist so that I can find him. I haven’t seen him since I was like two, when he ran off to travel the world for inspiration.”

“Yeah.” Killua replied, dazed. Was he dreaming? This was fucking _surreal_. Ging Frecc’s son was sitting across from him. Ging Frecc’s son worked at a hole-in-the-wall café and did graffiti. Two minutes ago, he had been checking out _Ging Frecc’s son_.

His heart was catching up for all the beats it had missed. “So, wait,” Killua said, finally invested in the conversation. “How does becoming an artist help? It’s not like you’ll have the resources in all likelihood. Getting rich off of art isn’t easy.” Of course, his family did it, but they were hardly the rule when it came to this kind of thing.

Gon bit his lip. “I don’t care about easy.”

“Still,” Killua said. “There’s hard, and there’s nigh on impossible.”

The coffee lay cooling, forgotten, by Killua’s right elbow. He’d regret not getting the caffeine later, but he was feeling plenty awake right now. More so than he might care to admit.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Gon asked, his voice dropping suddenly. Killua swallowed, nodding. “I don’t just want to become any old artist. I want to be a Hunter.”

Killua sat back against the booth. The pale blue cushion gave way easily, offering little resistance. He placed his hands on the table and crossed his legs.

“A Hunter?” Killua asked. “I don’t see what that has to do with art.”

Something in the way Gon said the word made him think that it wasn’t ‘hunter’, but ‘Hunter’, capital H. The way Gon said it carried weight, authority, meaning—all of which was absolutely baffling. Was he planning on tracking his father down like an escaped hare? Why would that need to be a secret? Unless it was sketchier than it sounded, something darker. Was he saying that he wanted to become a hitman?

Killua, lost in his reverie, missed the appraising look that Gon shot him.

“A Hunter is a graduate from Hunter’s Art Academy,” Gon stated with a gravity that seemed like overkill, no matter how prestigious the place was. Killua hadn’t heard of it, so it couldn’t be that great.

“And?” Killua asked. “What’s a school got to do with finding your father?”

“ _And_ , it’s practically a golden key into the world of art.” Killua snorted at this. “Hunter’s is more than a school—it’s an organization that guarantees you access to all the best resources. If you get into Hunter’s, your career is made. Plus, its alumni pool has some of the biggest names in _history,_ not to mention current billionaires.” Gon had this far-off look in his eyes, like he was describing a castle on the clouds rather than an adolescent holding facility. “Plus, if you manage to make it in, all your expenses are paid for the duration of your education.”

“Sounds interesting,” Killua said. Poor guy had a pipe dream.

“It is!” Gon exclaimed. “but even getting to the exam is almost impossible. The whole thing’s kind of supposed to be a secret—even the existence of Hunter’s is a taboo subject normally.”

Killua raised an eyebrow, curious despite himself. “Why?”

Gon had the good sense to look away. “Hunter’s has this motto, words that the alumni are supposed to live by: resourceful, creative, ambitious. And the exam doesn’t really test your skill so much as your potential—“

“And?” Killua asked, his impatience beginning to show as his fingers tapped the table. He hated people who talked around things.

“A lot of the tests would be considered…kind of illegal. I mean, there’s a stuff that goes on in them that’s against the law every year-- drugs, mutilation, couple of deaths, ‘cause the exam is testing how well you hold true to those ideals, right?—which, anyway, was why I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you and am now going to get into an incredible amount of trouble with the exam committee and-- _“_

“You actually believe that kind of shit?” Killua laughed.

Gon stopped in his tracks, the momentum of his words fizzling into the air. “What?” He asked, his expression guarded for the first time since he’d taken Killua’s order.

Gon had unwittingly answered the stupid-or-gullible question—yes to all.

“And the moon landing was faked, Meteor City still exists, and I can create lightning bolts with my aura.”

“You don’t believe me,” Gon accused.

“Of course I don’t believe you,” Killua drawled. “You hear that kind of conspiracy stuff all the time around here. There’s a new Hunter’s every week. Death defying this, secret organization that—what makes you think this place is legit?”

Gon crossed his arms across his chest. “My father was a Hunter.”

“And he told you that himself?” Low blow. He could feel his temper rising in response to this guy’s utter credulity.

“My Aunt Mito told me. She doesn’t lie,” Gon shot back. “And I know that it’s real.”

“Yeah? How?” Killua rose to his feet, his hands flat on the table.

Gon mirrored the movement, just a few inches taller than Killua. “I just do!”

“That’s not good enough!”

“Hunters are real!”

“Prove it!”

Killua realized, belatedly, that the two of them were-- well, he wouldn’t call it shouting, but it wasn’t far off. They were attracting attention. Even the moustache man was glancing at them out of the corner of his eye every couple of seconds. Killua’s jaw set. He couldn’t make this kind of scene—it was the kind that people remembered.

It was the kind that people could tell his family about.

“Maybe I will!”  

Gon hadn’t caught on, still escalating in volume, his stubborn face all worked up and red. He could see said face because it was close enough to his own that just an inch or two forwards and they wouldn’t be spitting at each other, they’d be _swapping_ spit. Killua caught Gon by the shoulders and shoved him back down into the seat. And to a reasonable distance away.

“Don’t make a scene, idiot,” Killua hissed.

Gon frowned, but acquiesced nonetheless.

“Unless you have actual proof that Hunter’s is a legitimate institution, I don’t know why I’d believe you. Or why you’re telling me all this shit at all, actually, given that it’s supposed to be ‘secret’.” Great, now he was doing the airquotes too.

Gon shifted in his seat. His face was too honest for him to hide his discomfort. “I don’t just tell anyone,” he said, as if that was what Killua was accusing him of. “You’re good enough to get in, that’s all.”

“And you could tell that from a doodle on the side of a napkin?” Killua muttered.

“That, and some street art.” Gon grinned, his face still flushed.

“You must be mistaken,” Killua said. “I’m not a street artist. I’m classically trained.”

Gon pursed his lips. “Can I borrow your pen?” Killua nodded, eyebrows drawn together. “I was on a hike yesterday—the woods remind me of home—and I wandered onto the path near the--” he took the pen and flipped over the napkin. He started scribbling in broad, quick strokes. Killua moved his head to see what the guy was drawing, but he had it shielded with the other hand. “--near the Zoldyck manor. It was kind of out of the way, but I wanted to take the bus that goes up there down the mountain since I had somewhere else to be.”

No fucking way.

“And anyway, I saw this piece of street art there,” Gon said, his hands unrelenting. His focus was scary. “I may be fuzzy on a couple of the details, but it looked like this, right?”

He made a few final additions to the napkin and then removed his hand, sliding it forwards across the table. Killua’s face hardened.

“Who’s paying you?” He asked, voice cold and cutting as steel. So much for the friendly waiter routine.

“The manager?” Gon cocked his head to the side. “This is your work, right?”

“Was it my father? Illumi? Or was it a different group? Corporate?”

“What are you talking about?” Gon asked. Killua kept his eyes focused on the bridge of Gon’s nose so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. He was good—but Killua should have known better than to trust a friendly stranger, not when his family was so surely on to him.  

“Whatever they’re paying you, pursuing me isn’t worth it. If my family hired you, trust me, it’s not worth getting tangled up in their shit. And if someone else did, then you’re already in too deep and I suggest a long vacation to Venezuela.”

Gon looked at him warily. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Stop _fucking with me,”_ Killua hissed.

“I’m not fucking with you!”

He looked so distraught that Killua took a mental step back. “So you’re telling me that you recognized my art style from _that_ —“ he gestured to the napkin, “—and connected it to the random ass piece of graffiti you saw for, what, a few minutes?”

Gon nodded.

“You’re either a genius or an idiot, and I can’t figure out which one it is.”  

Gon shrugged. “You’re too cynical,” he said.

Killua stayed silent, not trusting himself to respond. Anything he said could be used against him if this guy really had been hired to come after him.

“Look, if you want proof about Hunter’s, you’ve got to do two things.”

Killua arched an eyebrow.

“First thing you’ve got to to do is do an actual piece of street art. Something that you’ve taken the time to do, not like the stuff on the wall. If you do, put this design in it somewhere.” He used Killua’s pen to draw a rectangle with two x’s in it, meeting to form a diamond in the center. Gon then reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone, an old model that had been outdated as soon as it came out. “And the second thing you need to do is give me your phone number, so I can text you when you need to check it. In around a week or two, the exam committee’s going to evaluate applicants and give some sort of hint as to where the exam site is.”

“This is ridiculous,” Killua muttered.

“Then there’s no harm in trying it, right?” Gon looked so hopeful that Killua was forced to remind himself that the guy was probably working for someone who either wanted him back at home or had more nefarious intentions. If Gon wasn’t the overexcited puppy that he seemed, he could be deadly.

Killua sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. Gon was sitting there, blinking, with those stupid trusting eyes—ugh.

“Here’s my number. Don’t give it out to people,” Killua said, offering a slip of paper. It didn’t really matter if Gon did or not—it was a burner phone anyway, but Gon didn’t need to know that.

Gon took it with a grin. “Thanks, Killua!” He sprung up from the booth and brushed down his apron, tucking the paper into his pocket. “I’ll see you at the exam!”         

Snorting, Killua looked out the window, watching the rain come down. “Good luck with that.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first-- my shitty french: Killua asks, "Tu parles Francais?" asking "Do you speak French". Gon responds "I studied it for a few years when I was younger (literally, in my youth) but nowadays--" and makes a little so-so gesture. So in case you were wondering what that was, there you go. 
> 
> Second off, I have never written updates as quickly as I am for this fic, maybe because the chapters are really short, but mostly because I adore hunter x hunter and I can't believe it took me so long to get around to writing for this fandom. I've liked this show since I started watching the '99 version when I was 10, and have been writing fic since around then too. Figures. Anyhow, I hope you'll continue to bare with me with this story! I'm trying to keep a little of the grit and darkness of the original series while combining it with the realities of this new AU. Things are similar, but different. It's exciting. 
> 
> Also, I've never had a cup of coffee in my entire life. I have a headcanon (that's pretty much canon let's face it) that Killua has a huge sweet tooth, but also wants to be hardcore so he drinks his coffee black, but with a ton of whipped cream. Many thanks for reading, and leave some kudos or a comment to tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm so sorry. I thought that we could be friends."

Killing time was a specialty of Killua’s, a skill he had honed over endless summer nights and business dinners, an art that he practiced more than any other. That’s all this was.

Spending six hours on grafitti wasn't the normal way he did it, but still. 

Part of those six hours, he had to admit, was spent on figuring out how exactly spray cans worked, how to get them not to drip down and ruin everything. And the _scale_. The wall was the largest of any he had ever worked on.

Dutifully, Killua put the last touches on his piece and nodded. It was satisfactory. Not fantastic, but good enough that he’d sign it if he were in a place to do so. Leaving a signature would be a neon arrow to his family, though, and Killua couldn’t stand the idea of returning. Not when freedom tasted this good.

Killua’s burner phone chirped cheerfully. He opened it to see a text from the waiter, Gon.

 

Txt from [Annoying Waiter]: Did you do it yet?

Txt: You’re running out of time btw

Txt: The committee’s in town, Marking things up!! Test location soon.

 

Killua furrowed his eyebrows before jamming out a hasty response, looking around. What did he expect, a gang of paint ninjas? He assumed anyone around would at the very least wait for Killua to leave before they did anything.

 

Txt to [Annoying Waiter]: nah

 

The screen of his phone lit, alarm flashing across its screen in the form of exclamation marks. He felt a twinge of guilt about the nickname in his contacts, but it brought a smile to his face. Annoying, yes, but also doggedly friendly.

 

Txt from [Annoying Waiter]: !!???? It’s been a week!!

Txt: DO IT NOW

 

Txt to [Annoying Waiter]: Just kidding ;) its done and i left the mark thing. now what?

 

Txt from [Annoying Waiter]: Now you wait! And send me a pic btw I want to see what you came up with. Your style is super nice so it must be good!!

 

Killua frowned. It had been years since he had operated anything as archaic as the burner phone. He wasn’t sure if he could take a picture if he wanted to; and did he? Killua had always been less than enthusiastic about sharing his artwork.

But he was living on takeout and instant noodles, his bed squeaked with the turning of the Earth, and Killua was doing street art to indulge a conspiracy theorist. Norms didn’t apply.

Killua wrangled the phone into camera mode and snapped a picture, one that would have been nice had the resolution been about four times what it was. Sighing, he sent it without comment.

 

Txt from [Annoying Waiter]: Your colors are so beautiful please stop??

Txt: Don’t actually they’re really nice

Txt: How did you get that shade of blue wtf

TXT: adkjhsd

 

Killua chuckled despite himself.

 

Text to [Annoying Waiter]: thanks man. what did you do for yours?

 

Text from [Annoying Waiter]: png. attached

 

A picture loaded--painfully slowly, thanks to Killua’s limited data-- that made even jaded Killua raise his eyebrows. Gon painted without black lines, his work a flurry of greens and blues dappling an undeserving brick wall. It showed a whimsical boy sitting in a tree, fighting to reel in a fish the size of a house. He could feel the boy’s exuberance like it was his own, see the tension in his arms and the hard ambition in his eyes. It was street art, but it felt like poetry. Killua's heart beat faster.

Art rarely made him feel anything anymore.

It took Killua a few seconds to notice the technicalities, the places where Gon’s inexperience showed. That in and of itself was unusual.

Biting his lip, Killua tapped out a response.

 

Txt to [Annoying Waiter]: its good.

 

He opened the picture again and just stared at it, willing the emotion stirring in him to go away. But the longer he looked at it, the more complex the feelings that accompanied it became; he saw the wistfulness behind the boy's actions, the regality in the arch of the fish’s body, the quiet pride that the forest took in its protege, the boy.

Who was this waiter?

His phone buzzed again, but Killua couldn’t bring himself to open it. He stowed the phone in his back pocket and turned his back on the painting. His own work was good, yes, but it was clinical. So _cold._ Even the subject he had chosen, the classically beautiful woman, felt lacking. Her eyes felt empty, despite the way that her expression crumpled in reaction to some unseen heartbreak. It was technically superb, but it lacked whatever intangible element that Gon’s piece had in bundles. Heart. Soul. Sympathy.

Killua scowled, his hands squeezing into fists at his sides. He had to see Gon’s work up close, had to figure out how he did it. Killua was better, but Gon had something that he didn’t. Killua would stalk up to it and it would become colors and lines arranged in aesthetically pleasing way, subject to technique and rules, just like all art eventually did. It would break down into its components and Killua would be able to understand it.

Even with his phone in his pocket, he could still see it in his head. Could still _feel_ it.

Killua strode towards the street.

This whole Hunter’s thing could be utter nonsense, for all Killua knew. For all Killua cared. But this waiter, this Gon, held a unique fascination.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the only number in his contacts.

“Gon? Are you doing anything? Can you show me your piece? The picture's really grainy.”

As Killua flagged a taxi, he didn’t see the shadow out of the corner of his eye. As he got in, he couldn't smell the aerosol. As it sped away, he couldn't hear the paint spraying. 

\---

“Can you believe it?” Gon gushed, holding his phone up to Leorio’s uncompromising scowl. “He did _this_ kind of work and he still wants to see mine.” Leorio frowned. “Just _look at it._ ”

“I understand that he’s practically a god, but I have to study,” Leorio said, keeping his eyes fixed on the book in front of him.

“You’re not even studying! You’re making cheat sheets to stick to the inside of your tie, you crook,” Gon said accusingly.  

Leorio shrugged. “A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”

“I don’t even understand why you’re studying in the first place,” Gon whined. “You’ve been buried in books since last week, and they’re not even on the same topic.” He picked up the one closest to him. “This one’s on monkeys. What does that have to do with anything?”

“You never know what you’ll need on the exam,” Leorio said, snatching back his book and dropping it back onto the pile. “Just you wait. When we need someone to be an expert on _proto_ simian behavior, I’ll just help myself.” He sniffed. “Since you don’t think it’ll be useful.”

“It’s not even a written test, Leorio.”

“You don’t know that!” Leorio shot back. “What if it is? What if it’s math?”

“Is that a possibility?” Gon asked, his eyes going wide. “Oh God, what it is?" He snatched up a towering stack of books. "Can I borrow some of these?”

Kurapika looked up from his own book. “I sincerely doubt that there’s going to be a written exam portion, given what we know.”

“Yeah?” Leorio sneered. “Then why are you reading up on Achaemenid history?”

“It’s good to be educated, Lee-orio. Not that you’d know.”

Leorio slammed his book shut. “It’s Leorio.”

“Of course, Lee-orio.”

"Your not-caring doesn't make you superior, you know. It just makes you an asshole. 

"If you'd done anything other than cheat in the last ten years, Lee-orio, you'd know that the word for this mysterious 'not caring' is apathy."

"I'll show you where you can put that apathy, you--"

Gon had seen this argument too many times to let it go on. “I'm leaving soon,” he interjected. "If either of you get tired of this, you could come with."

“Where are you going?” Leorio asked, still glaring at Kurapika.

“To an art museum-- if you were paying attention, you would have known that,” Kurapika corrected.

“The two of you are more similar than you’d think,” Gon muttered. He threw his hands in the air. “Neither of you listen. I’m going to see Killua. You two are welcome to stay here and bicker if that suits you better.”

“I’m going out too,” Kurapika said, delicately placing his novel on the coffee table. He uncrossed his legs and stood. Gon didn’t miss the way that Leorio’s eyes followed him. “I need a new sketchbook." 

“Didn’t you just get a new one?” Leorio asked.

“Didn’t you want to mind your own business?” Kurapika countered.

Gon rolled his eyes. “Could you grab some bread while you’re out?” It was only a matter of time 'til one of them snapped. Gon didn't know whether that would end in a morgue or a bedroom, and he didn't care to find out. 

“Of course, Gon.” Kurapika grabbed the keys and led the way out the door, Gon just behind. “Anything else? Lee-orio?”

“Buy something you can use to get that stick outta your ass,” Leorio groused.  

“I’ll see if I can find something.” Gon's money was on the bedroom. 

The two of them walked with each other for a few minutes, but soon enough they parted ways. Gon started to make his way to The Quay. It was close enough to the 11th street lot, and they both knew where it was-- something that was a bit of an issue, apparently. Killua hadn’t seemed very familiar with the city when they had talked on the phone, hadn’t known any of the regular landmarks.

Gon wondered where he came from. Though he seemed new to the city, his accent wasn’t remarkably different from the city one. He certainly talked with the same speed as city-folk. Thoughts rushed out of his mouth like he was worried that they would be swept away by the whistling skyscraper winds, sentences sped through as if he didn’t have time for conclusions, words climbing on top of one another in a cosmopolitan crush. People talked as fast as they thought here, as fast as everything in the city.

Well, except the traffic.

Gon glanced at the stop-and-go current of cars ticking by and grimaced. He couldn’t afford a car here, but he had never been more thankful of that fact.

As he rounded the corner a yellow taxi caught his eye. In it was a familiar face, blank and bored as it gazed unseeingly out the window.

“Killua!” Gon exclaimed, rushing forward and waving. Killua either didn’t see him or pretended not to. “Killua!” Gon waited until the cars were stopped again and tapped on the glass. Killua started.

The window rolled down. “What the hell?” Killua asked. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was going to The Quay, same as you-- I guess we just crossed paths, and I thought it would be silly to see you and not say anything.”

Killua pursed his lips. “I suppose.”

“Where are you coming from?” Gon asked.

“My hotel.”

“Around here?” The traffic shifted and Gon moved with it, walking alongside the cab, immune to the looks he was getting from other pedestrians.

“Yeah, around here. So what?” Killua asked, eyes narrow.

Gon shrugged. “I would’ve expected you to stay in a nicer part of town, is all. You’re very...groomed.”

“Thanks, I think. You wanna get in? It’s dumb that you’re walking alongside the car I’m paying for.”

“I guess I could?” Gon made as if to open the passenger side door. The taxi driver, a man with a large, bushy mustache scowled when he tried to do so.  
“You ever rid in a taxi before, kid? Passengers in the back.”

Gon got in the back.

Killua looked quizically at Gon for a few long moments before going back to staring out the window. Gon couldn’t help but notice the fine line of his jaw as he rested his face on his hand.

“What kind of art do you want to do if you make it into Hunter’s?” Gon asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Me neither, to be honest.”

“Thought you said you wanted to be a painter?”

“Yeah, but only because my dad was. I’m not really sure what my favorite kind of art is-- definitely not sculpture, but I don’t know beyond that.”

“Just do what you’re good at,” Killua said. “That’ll get you the money you need for finding him.”

Gon frowned. “If you just do what you’re good at, you won’t get any better.”

“How idealistic. It just means that you’ll get better at what you’re naturally inclined to do,” Killua explained. “Which is all any of us really end up doing, in the end. Everyone ends up a specialist of some sort.”

“Maybe, but my Aunt Mito says that we should at least try everything before we decide whether we want to be good at it or not. She says that being good at something is a decision.”

“And what do you say?” Killua asked. “You believe that?”

“Aunt Mito wouldn’t lie.”

“People don’t have to be lying to be wrong, you know.”

Gon wondered why Killua was always in such a sour mood when they met. He’d known people who were chronically unhappy regardless of the cards they were dealt, but Killua didn’t seem like one of them. Gon couldn’t begin to guess where he came from, but he had to wonder what kind of life Killua led, that his face flattened into a frown so naturally. Why was he so hostile, so suspicious, so resolutely pessimistic?

“I don’t really have a specialty either,” Killua admitted after a few beats had passed.

“Really? I would’ve thought--”

“Yeah, you would’ve thought wrong. I just do whatever looks good, I guess.” Killua’s face darkened, his jaw setting.

Gon scrunched his eyebrows together. “Isn’t that a specialty?” He asked. “To be able to make things beautiful? Every artist wants to make a statement, and yours could be that-- that the world looks good, that it’s beautiful.”

“I guess.”

“And your art was so delicate, paid attention to the smallest details, showed so much _control._ ”

“Yeah, it’s all about control. I’m a real controlled guy. How much longer do you think this ride’s gonna take?” Killua directed his question at the taxi driver.

“Depends on the traffic,” the driver replied easily.

“We were pretty close when I got in,” Gon said. “And we’ve been in the car for a while, so we should be there soon.”

“Should be there already,” Killua muttered, eyeing the fare tracker. “How’s this thing so expensive?”

The driver shifted the car into the next gear. “Base cost plus a quarter of that for every mile,” he said.

Gon’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, the text from Kurapika lighting up in blue. He didn’t even have to open it to see what it said:

 

Txt from [Kurapika]: You’re in.

 

Gon’s face lit. He turned to share the news with Killua, but the scene outside caught his eye. Far from the small, squat buildings surrounding The Quay, the side of the street was rife with tall, thin, glass paned buildings. They must have been nearing the docks from which the cafe drew its name, but that was impossible. The docks were on the other side of town.

“Hang on a second,” Killua said. “It’s by the mile?” He entered some numbers into his phone.

“Killua,” Gon murmured. “Something’s up.”

“We can’t have gone that far! You trying to cheat me, old man?”

“I think we have,” Gon said quietly. “Look around.” Even Killua, who wasn’t familiar with the city, had to realize that they weren’t where they were meant to be.

And he did. His face, already pale, lost its remaining color. “Get out,” Killua ordered Gon, his voice low and tense. His features remained blank. “Open the door and get out. Roll when you hit the ground and you’ll be fine.” He faced the driver, his voice angry again. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that it costs twice for two of us!”

“Killua--”

“ _Get out._ ”

Gon reached for the door, but it was locked. Killua cursed under his breath.

“Same price, I assure you,” the driver said. “We’re almost there.”

Killua grumbled, but made a show out of settling back into his seat.

Gon opened his mouth to ask where they were going, but Killua shook his head wildly. Gon remained silent. Surreptitiously, Killua unbuckled his seatbelt and slid next to Gon. “I recognize him from The Quay. Bushy mustache, had the table next to mine last week. He was probably keeping an eye on me.”

Now that Killua mentioned it, the man did look familiar. “He’s black coffee and a pastry guy,” Gon breathed. At Killua’s bemused look, Gon clarified. “I thought it was weird that he would order coffee without sugar and then get something sweet.”

“Doesn’t matter what he ordered. It matters what he’s been ordered to do.”

“What?” Gon said, fighting to keep his voice low enough that the driver couldn’t hear.

“I’m Killua Zoldyck,” Killua said. The name sounded familiar, but Gon couldn’t quite place it. “My family is involved in art trading, finding private collectors and convincing them to sell to museums. Professional middlemen.”   

“So what?”

“Most of it’s illegal. People don’t want to part with their treasure, and sometimes they need a little convincing.”

“Ah.” Gon nodded. “Okay, so do you know what’s going on?”

Killua frowned at Gon. “Most people don’t believe me when I tell them that. Or if they do, they’re not exactly cool with it.”

“I don’t think now’s the time for that kind of stuff.”

“Either way, this guy could be with my family, or paid by any number of a group of investors or corporate figures to kidnap me and hold me ransom.”

“Or worse,” Gon offered. “People who’ve needed convincing probably aren’t too happy with your family.”

“Which is why we need to get out of here _right now._ ”

“Excuse me,” Gon said to the driver, ignoring Killua’s frantic hand gestures. “I think we’ll walk from here, thank you.”

“Yeah, we’ll just pay and be on our way,” said Killua, catching on.

The car’s engine revved. The driver turned back to face them. “Sorry boys, but I don’t think so.”

“What do you think you’re doing? We’re paying customers!” Killua shot.

“Just sit tight for two more minutes and we’ll be set.”

Gon’s mind raced. Two minutes meant that wherever they were going, they were going to get there soon. A warehouse? A ship? They only had a little time to escape before they arrived-- and wherever that was, it was probably better fortified than a taxi.

Killua looked unexpectedly calm.

“Let us out,” Killua said. “Before I have to make you.” His voice, his eyes, his body, still as a sculpture, were ice. Cold, hard, cutting.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” the driver said. “Well, anyway, this is where I leave you boys.”

The man opened his door and leapt out, nimble as anything. He managed to close his door behind him, though Gon couldn’t tell how. A card fell out of his pocket as he did so, right onto the drivers seat. The car shot ahead without its driver. Straight towards the pier.

"The card--" Gon started. Whatever the driver had left behind didn't matter now, not when they were hurtling at forty miles an hour towards their deaths. 

Gon shot forwards. “The gas pedal won’t move!” He called back. “And the brakes have been ripped out-- there’s no way to stop us!”

Killua blinked slowly. He didn’t move. “I’m sorry, Gon.”

“Huh?” Gon used all his strength to try to lift the gas pedal, to no avail.

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Their path was unobstructed, straight towards the glimmering ocean ahead of them. Beautiful, but deadly. Gon tried to bust through the windows with his elbow, but his efforts came to nothing.

“I’m sorry that I invited you to get in the car. I’m sorry that I gave you my number. I should have known better,” Killua said. “I thought that we could be friends.”

“Hey,” Gon said, appearing once more in the backseat. He took Killua by the shoulders and gave him a quick, hard hug. “We are friends, okay? I got in the car, I asked for your number, I chose all of this. No apologies, no regrets. Let’s get out of here alive.”

“Yeah,” Killua said weakly. “Okay.”

They reached the end of the pier. The car hit the water with a clap.

\---

“Gon didn’t reply,” Kurapika said, frowning.

“He’s probably just busy with Killua.”

“Killua?” Kurapika asked. His nose scrunched at the name, one that he knew he should have remembered. “He’s Gon’s new friend, right?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll just tell him when he gets back, then.”

“Share our good news with him as well. Don’t want to make him think that he’s gotten in alone.”

Kurapika grinned down at his phone. He’d had the same picture open for half an hour. The Mark he’d left on his own piece was filled in red to complete the Hunter’s emblem.

“When do you think they’ll contact us about the exam site?” Leorio asked.  

“Soon enough, I’m sure. They’re always quick about it.”

A knock at the door.

“That’ll be Gon.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. But! Action is fun, right? Things happening? Exciting?


End file.
